


Stay in Your Coma

by Poppelganger



Category: OFF (Game)
Genre: Betrayal, Disturbing Themes, Dreamsharing, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hospitals, Jealousy, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-07
Updated: 2014-06-13
Packaged: 2018-02-03 10:43:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1741853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poppelganger/pseuds/Poppelganger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Children should not be gods.</p><p>In which the Player, Hugo, and Sugar are three sick kids in a hospital.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Genesis

**Author's Note:**

> This fic contains religious themes and dissection of said themes, and may offend some readers.
> 
> It's also potentially the darkest thing I've written. The smiles all run out in the first few chapters; please proceed with caution.

Pablo was your first try.

All you had to work with were pictures and your imagination, so he came out misshapen, his head too big for his body, his teeth unnecessarily large and sharp, and his behavior more suited to a scholar than a cat, but he was your first try, so you loved him too much to change a thing.

Your parents think you're too old to have imaginary friends, but they don't say anything about Pablo, because you've never been able to have a pet before, and they're willing to let it slide if it will bring a smile to your face.  They know you have a wild imagination and not a lot of room for it, so any dreams you have where you walk with Pablo and puzzle over the meanings of your fragile existences they dismiss as such.

But they're real to you--Pablo is real to you--and that's all that matters.

Like your dreams, your waking life is completely in sterile monochrome, plastic and metal, consisting of your room in a long hospital hallway and curtained windows that lead to a forgotten outdoors.  You're not as young as some of the others, almost fifteen, but you all have the same kinds of problems; faulty hearts and genetic disorders and birth defects, and all that really means is that you're not built to last.

Some are lucky; some are like your previous roommate, a girl who got to trade out one of her flawed organs for one that worked, and she got to leave, to walk and run outside, the grow up.  Some need machines to breathe and wheelchairs to move, but if they're lucky, their family can afford smaller machines that they can take with them and they get to feel the sunlight on their skin again.  Some are only sick for a season, and once it's over, they return to the world outside.

Some are not so lucky.  Some are like your current roommate, who has something wrong with her head as well as her body.  She laughs when she shouldn't.  Some are like you, a "long-term" patient, a veteran of the children's ward, a body that does not have one big problem but lots of little problems, and all of those little ones add up and make you just as sick, if not more, than those with just one big one.

Some are like Hugo, who has spent half of his entire life so far in a hospital, which is not very long but is all of the time he can remember, so sick that the nurses are surprised when his blood tests have positive results and every month that he is alive is cause for celebration.  He is also unlucky because, even though he has been here for so long, you think you've only seen one of his parents a few times.  It's hard to be sick, and harder when you have no one.  Your roommate right now is unlucky that way, too; no one has come for her, either.

But the three of you--you and your roommate and Hugo--you are all also very lucky, because your imaginations are limitless and your dreams are shared.  You've given up trying to explain it to your parents, because they don't understand.  They're not like you; they're not sick like you are, they don't think like you do.  A dream is a dream, and they don't see that a dream can be more than  _just_ a dream.  It can be warm and colorful and all the things you don't have normally.  It can be paradise; it can be its own world.

You met Hugo for the first time when you were eleven in the children's play room.  He was even younger then; a tall woman with long, light hair held him in her arms.  It might have been his mother, but you can't remember her face at all.  Hugo held in one hand a figurine, a tiny action figure of a boxer, and you remember him staring at you the way young children do.  He looked into your eyes and recognized you somehow, and you recognized him, not because you had met before but because you were the same.  You did not know each other but you  _knew_ each other, the same way that you knew your roommate, even though you had never spoken because she was always laughing or crying without any reason.

When you slept that night, you dreamed of a simple world with a pastel blue sky and a painfully bright pink horizon, and you found both Hugo and your roommate there, waving to you from up ahead on the road that stretched forever in both directions.  Hugo was not sick in this dream; he was strong enough to stand and walk on his own, and when he spoke, he didn't sound as if he was out of breath.  Your roommate was not sick, either, not laughing or crying maniacally but just smiling at you like one would an old friend. 

And you were not sick, either.  You ran to them, and your chest did not hurt, your nose did not burn, your legs did not ache, and you felt like you could run forever. 

"You came," Hugo said, "I knew you would."

Hugo, who was even younger and even more creative, unbound by the rules of the real world to an even greater degree, was not limited to making only figures like you.  He made entire worlds based on his visions and ideals, worlds without suffering and sickness with people and animals and so much color, and he shared this world with you and your roommate because he knew you were like him.

Your evening walks with Pablo are no longer shrouded with fog or in dark, vague spaces, but in Hugo's bright world.  He doesn't mind the change in scenery.

"How curious," Pablo says as you make your way down the street to meet with Hugo.  He told you in your previous dream, just as you were waking with the first lights of the hospital coming on, that he had something to show you. "I never imagined that there would be others with ingenuity that matched yours, and the skill to put it into action."

"Skill?" you repeat.  You've never really thought of it as a skill, though it must be, since you have tried and failed to create whole worlds like Hugo can.  You think it's because he's younger.

"You may be unaware of the mechanism with which you bring your machinations into existence, but there is skill involved.  You are quite talented; I am a picturesque representation of companionship, am I not?"

You agree with him, though you don't know why he would say anything else.  Pablo is your creation--is it even possible for him to go against your wishes or say things that you disagree with?  You've never given it much thought, though he is rather intelligent.

Hugo and your roommate--who introduced herself to you once as Sugar, though you're not sure if that's her real name--appear in the distance with their backs turned to you, looking up at the Boxxer.  Hugo has told you the story of his hero and favorite creation--the Boxxer, a just and pure man who does battle with the evil Ballman and protects his world.  Hugo notices when you approach and turns away from the Boxxer, who suddenly ceases to exist.  That's another thing you've never thought about; what happens to Pablo when you're not dreaming of him?  Does his existence rely on you recognizing him?  You'll have to ask him about it later.

"Let's go," he says, "You have to meet the Queen."  He looks from you to Sugar and tells you both to close your eyes and keep them closed until he says to open them.

When you do, you're in a different world, one even more simple than what you're used to.  Hugo says he made it when he was still learning to talk; it's a long hallway of black and white, and up ahead is an ascending staircase that climbs into the sky, farther than you can see.  You seem to climb forever, though you never get tired, and eventually you reach the top.

The Queen is all wisps, white hair and dress flowing all around her and limbs tapering off into smooth, fingerless hands.  She has no face.  "Hugo," she says, maybe hisses, probably whispers, and you hear happiness in that voice, "You have brought friends."  She reminds you of the woman you thought might have been his mother.  She probably is his mother, you realize, except that she has not abandoned him.  Or rather, she can't; she's stuck at the top of this staircase inside of his world.

You and Sugar introduce yourselves and curtsy politely, because she is a queen, after all.  She offers you tea and snacks, and the three of you spend the rest of this dream gathered around a table, talking and laughing.

Most days--like today--you'd rather stay asleep, but you know you should be glad when you wake up, because in the little world of your waking life--the white hallway, the faceless doctors and nurses who all look the same, the blips of the heart monitor and the sighs of the breathing machine--sometimes, someone goes to sleep and never wakes up.


	2. Leviticus

Your parents bring books and magazines the next time they visit.  You'll read anything you can get your hands on, but you like pictures even better--new material to work with, new ideas, new things to try.  Pablo is the only thing you have ever made, but Hugo's vast world and all of the characters he's populated it with inspire you to try again.

You've looked through the magazines so many times that you almost have all of the pictures memorized.  If you think about it hard enough in your sleep, you can bring them with you.  Hugo has another old world for you to spend time in; this one is nothing but gold, buildings floating in the middle of a white sea.  You, Sugar, Hugo and Pablo sit together on the roof, legs dangling off the side.

"I don't know what to make," you say, thumbing through the magazine in your lap.  Pablo peers at it curiously before wedging his head between the pages and your arm to get your attention.  You scratch behind his ears and he purrs appreciatively.  

"How about a person?" Sugar offers, "They're harder to make, but they're really interesting."

She claims she's made one before, but you've never seen it.  You think she might be embarrassed that she can't make anything.

Hugo sits farthest away, looking down at the churning waves of white below and kicking his feet beneath him.  "You should make another cat," he suggests, "Because cats should come in pairs."

"Really?"  You look at Pablo, whose eyes are closed in contentment as he nuzzles against your hand.  "What do you think?"  

"The decision ultimately rests with you," he says unhelpfully, and you turn through the magazine looking for a picture of a cat.  When you find one, you stare for a few minutes, trying to take in all of the details.  You close your eyes and you imagine a cat, similar to Pablo but not the same.  More realistic, a small mouth and fewer teeth, a few more angles.

When you open your eyes, he's sitting on top of the magazines.  Your second try looks a bit better; his head is not as strangely circular as Pablo's but it might be a bit too square.  His ears are more pronounced and his tail is more even throughout.  He opens his mouth and he meows loudly.  You have successfully created a regular cat.

"Look," you tell Pablo, "I made you a brother."

Pablo is cautious at first, pulling himself out from under your arm to tiptoe close to the other cat and sniff at him closely.  There is a moment of silence before the newcomer mewls and bats at him with a paw, and Pablo seems to accept him.

"He isn't very smart," he says.

"He's a cat."

"So am I."

"He's a regular cat," you correct.

"What is my brother's name?"

You glance down at the cover of the magazine and scan the columns of text for a name.  "Um," you pause, and find one, "Valerie."

"Valerie," Pablo repeats, and the younger cat starts to clean him, "Stop that."

"They're so cute," Sugar says with a grin, and reaches out to Valerie, who turns his attention to her and climbs into her lap.  "Aw!"

"Are we going to see the Queen today?" you ask Hugo, who hasn't said anything yet.

He shrugs.  "I guess."  He notices another magazine beside you and points to it.  "What's that?"

You pick it up.  The cover has a picture of a baseball team.  "Dad bought it.  Do you wanna see?"  You offer it to him, but he doesn't take it.

"Do you like sports?" Sugar asks.  Valerie is practically climbing on her.

"Not really."

"You just think the boys are cute."

Your face flushes in embarrassment.  "No."

She giggles.  "Yes, you do."

Everything you needed to learn about human growth and development you've learned in bits and pieces throughout your checkups, mostly because your hormonal growth has been stunted with all of the medications you're taking. 

"Why don't you make the Ballman a good guy?" you ask Hugo.  He looks confused.  On one hand, Sugar is right--you think the tall, strong-looking baseball players are cute.  But this is different; you've been wondering how your creations feel lately.  Is the Ballman unhappy about being a bad guy all the time?  Does he resent the Boxxer even though the Boxxer is only doing what he's supposed to do?

"The Boxxer is the good guy," Hugo says.

"Why can't there be two good guys?"

"Because then there would be no bad guys."

"Then why do there have to be bad guys?"

Hugo looks angry with you, but he speaks calmly, like you're the unreasonable child in this situation.  "There just does."

Sugar and Pablo say nothing, watching your exchange apprehensively.  You don't see what the problem is.  If there really has to be a bad guy, then Hugo just has to make a new one, but he refuses to listen to you.  "Let's go see the Queen," he says suddenly and stands up.  Sugar puts Valerie down and the two of you follow, though you're still silently fuming.

Hugo has been acting odd.  He never said much before, but he says even less now, listlessly staring into the distance at the edges of the world, and even though he's younger, his eyes are so much older than yours.  Pablo has described it as "nihilistic behavior," but you don't know what that even means.

When you arrive at the top of the Queen's staircase again, she first speaks to Hugo in hushed tones, turning away from you and Sugar, so the two of you sit on the ground and busy yourself with the cats.  "What's his problem?" you whisper, and she shrugs.  "I wasn't trying to be mean.  I just thought the Ballman probably doesn't like being the bad guy."

"I don't think he cares," she replies softly, stroking Valerie's fur.  You think she must really like him.  "Hugo made the Ballman."

"But doesn't the Ballman have feelings?"

"I don't know."

"I don't think we can be mean to something just because we made it," you say.

She's silent.  "Even if it does something you don't like?" she asks quietly.

You stare at her.  "Yes," you say, "Even then."

*

Your meeting with the Queen is cut short when you jolt awake in your hospital bed.  People are running in the hallways.  Your little black and white world is invaded by a dozen people at once, white lab coats and surgical masks, a splash of color, green scrubs, panicked voices, but they rush past you and huddle around your roommate.  She's as white as the sheet she lays under, and she's giggling while she gasps, her hands clenching the sides of her bed as she tries to breathe.  You're afraid to watch, but you can't look away from the mass of nurses and doctors and wires, and when it's finally over and the crowd disperses, she has a plastic mask over her mouth and nose.  She's not laughing anymore; she looks like she's sleeping.

The doctor standing beside her is short with dark hair, and he looks worriedly from her to the breathing machine and back again.  You watch him hold her hand and her fingers twitch.  The machine breathes for her, in, compression, and out, hiss, his grip on her hand relaxes ever so slightly.

Even after the doctor leaves, your roommate stays connected to the breathing machine, and you listen to it and her, inhale, exhale, gasp, giggle, inhale, exhale, for hours, and you close your eyes and wish you were somewhere else because listening to it makes you scared, makes you wonder if you'll be like that someday.


End file.
